


Shibari

by Badwolf36



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Bondage, Dom Derek, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, Japanese Rope Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Massage, Oral Sex, Rope Bondage, Shibari, Sub Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 09:52:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2063610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badwolf36/pseuds/Badwolf36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek turns Stiles into his very own living, breathing (and extremely responsive) canvas with some simple twists and knots in a rope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shibari

**Title:** Shibari  
 **Fandom:** Teen Wolf  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Characters:** Derek Hale, Stile Stilinski  
 **Word count:** 5,171  
 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Teen Wolf or any related properties.  
 **Warnings:** Bondage  
 **Summary:** Derek turns Stiles into his very own living, breathing (and extremely responsive) canvas with some simple twists and knots in a rope.

 

**********************

 

 

Derek weaves the soft, royal blue rope past one of the knots he’s already tied, admiring the pattern he’s creating against the pale, mole-speckled flesh of his living canvas.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and gets a pleased groan in response.

Pausing for a moment, Derek examines the blissed-out look on Stiles’ face. “Doing okay?”

“Mmmm. Yup,” Stiles says.

“No tingling? No numbness?” Derek is sure of his skill, but he wants to make sure Stiles know he can tell him if he feels uncomfortable or like things are going wrong. Also, with the cotton blindfold (the one that he’d carefully picked out in the same shade of royal blue as the rope) covering Stiles’ eyes, Derek wants to be sure of Stiles’ reactions.

“S’all good,” Stiles slurs out, sounding almost drunk. “How’s it look?”

Derek takes a step back to drink in the full picture Stiles makes. Stiles is kneeling with his knees spread apart on a plush white blanket which covers a thick rubber pad on the floor of Derek’s loft.

He’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat from how long he’s been holding the position Derek eased him down into earlier in the evening. Derek knows the ADHD, even with Stiles’ current Adderall dose, makes it hard for him to stay completely still. It’s why he’s never asked him for that type of obedience, why he never will. But Stiles has been so good for this, only shifting minutely.

And then Derek studies the artwork he’s been so carefully crafting on his lover’s body. The royal blue rope he’d bought on a whim one day is looped around Stiles’ defined thighs, which are toned from the running he does for cross country, lacrosse and fleeing from supernatural creatures. The ends of those ropes are twisted around his wrists, which are dangling in front of him, hiding his erect cock from Derek’s view.

The ropes twist up and over and around his biceps and triceps, with a series of knots in the middle holding his arms in their tight embrace. The last two knots in the chain link to a loop around Stiles’ chest, just below his armpits, and to a single loop that Derek’s wound around the back of his neck.

He’s not done yet, but he certainly can’t deny the gorgeousness of the picture in front of him. He feels compelled to tell Stiles so, and for once he doesn’t stifle the urge.

“You’re such a perfect canvas for me.” Stiles shudders in pleasure at hearing the words, and Derek feels a rush of adrenaline at being able to do that to Stiles, at being able to do that _for_ Stiles.

“Like being yours,” Stiles murmurs, and the words would be bold if they didn’t sound like they were coming from a million miles away.

Derek steps forward again, stroking his hand over Stiles’ hair, running his fingers through the un-gelled brunette locks.

“So good,” he says, and Stiles shudders again, falling forward a little until his face is resting against Derek’s abs. He’s shirtless and barefoot himself, but he’s still wearing his second-favorite pair of sweats, the insanely soft black ones he wears to sleep in when he makes it as far as sleepwear. “Want to keep going?”

Stiles nods, although the action is less an affirmative and more Stiles using the opportunity to rub his face against Derek. Derek snorts as he notices Stiles is using the button of his fly to scratch his nose.

“You know, you could have told me if you had an itch.”

“Canvases don’t get itchy,” Stiles says matter-of-factly, and Derek snorts again.

“Canvases don’t, but you’re so much more than just a canvas.” He traces his fingertips over Stile’s face, pleased when Stiles leans into his hand. “So much more. But you didn’t answer my question. Do you want to keep going?”

“Want to if you want to,” Stiles says, and Derek listens for a skip in his heartbeat, surprised as always when he doesn’t hear one. It’s not that he thinks Stiles would lie to him (even if Stiles is more than capable of lying to people he cares about; his dad is a prime example), but sometimes Stiles doesn’t have his own best interests at heart.

Derek crouches down, running his fingers over and beneath the ropes, checking to see how long the marks on Stiles’ skin stay when he lifts the rope away.

“I’m good,” Stiles says. “Good. You can…mmm…keep going.”

“I’d hoped you’d love this,” Derek says, more to himself than Stiles, but Stiles nods in agreement anyways.

“Do. Love it. Love you.”

Derek hums in satisfaction before reaching out and briefly tweaking both of Stiles’ nipples.

“Think I’ll get some clamps next time, thread the rope through them. Every time you move, they’ll tug on these perky little nipples of yours. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Stiles?”

Stiles nods again, head drifting down toward his chest, already drifting deeper into the headspace Derek has led him to.

“That’s right,” Derek croons, rubbing his hands down Stiles’ arms, fingers skipping against the rope wrapped around his flesh. “I think we’ll do a little more.”

“More blue?” Stiles asks.

_“Blue rope, huh?” Stiles had said, trailing a length of the coil that had been draped on top of the bedspread over his palm._

_“Interested?” Derek had asked, trying desperately not to show just how invested he was in Stiles’ answer._

_“Very,” Stiles had answered, then let out a soft laugh._

_“What?”_

_“Nothing,” Stiles had responded. “Blue’s just pretty. Where do we start?”_

“More blue,” Derek confirms. “It’s pretty on you.”

“You’re pretty,” Stiles slurs out, leaning his weight forward again until his warm, sweaty forehead is pressed up tightly against Derek’s right collarbone.

Derek takes the two long ends hanging from the knot just below Stiles’ neck and loops them around Stiles’ chest, standing up so he can walk behind him. Stiles groans, but nods when Derek asks if he can continue.

Granted permission, Derek sets about weaving a pattern of diamond shapes down Stiles’ spine using knots and twists. He loses himself in his work, enjoying the rush as Stiles grows more and more pliant beneath his ministrations.

Occasionally, he traces his fingers over the flesh between the rope loops, the action as much to check Stiles for any pain as it is to watch him jump and shudder and mewl.

Derek is hard, but he makes no move to do anything about his arousal. When he hooks his chin over Stiles’ shoulder for a moment to check how the knots against his back are affecting the tension of the ones against his front, he notes Stiles is hard, too. That’s more difficult to resist, but he limits himself to nipping Stiles’ left earlobe, whispering wetly in his ear, “Perfect.”

Stiles jerks forward against Derek’s arms, whining desperately.

“Almost done,” Derek says, pulling back to do up the final few knots, the ones that link Stiles’ ankles together.

That accomplished, he stands and steps clear of Stiles. He walks a slow circuit around him, observing Stiles like he’s a work of fine art at a prestigious gallery. He admires the play of the loft’s natural and artificial lighting against Stiles’ skin and the rope, studies the way a drop of sweat slips from his forehead into the blindfold, darkening the rich blue to an even deeper shade; and ponders whether Stiles has any clue how beautiful he is.

“I wish you could see yourself the way I do,” Derek says as he watches Stiles’ chest heave against the knots holding him tight.

“Blindfold,” Stiles gasps out.

“Still wouldn’t be the same,” Derek says, completing another circuit. He stops when he’s in front of Stiles again, and buries his hands in Stiles’ sweat-slicked hair. “But you have a point. Close your eyes.”

Derek waits a few beats, giving Stiles time to follow his command, before he picks apart the knot holding the blindfold against Stiles’ eyes. It was the first one he tied tonight, and he feels a bit of sadness at seeing it unravel, but it’s worth it for the way Stiles gasps when he looks down at his arms.

“You…it’s…” He stops, apparently at a loss for words. He looks up at Derek with his amber eyes practically shining. “Wow.”

“Gorgeous,” Derek says simply, kneeling down in front of Stiles. He wraps his arms around Stiles’ bound frame, adoring the way Stiles sinks against him as much as the ropes will allow. He pulls back after a moment, cupping Stiles’ chin in his hand. “Say we can do this again.”

“Mmmhmm,” Stiles groans after a long moment.

Derek chuckles. “Remind me to ask you that later.”

“Ask me that later,” Stiles dutifully repeats back, his syllables and consonants threading together.

Derek nuzzles his chin against the top of Stiles’ head, the edges of his lips curving up into the smile he reserves for Stiles. “Good job,” he says.

Stiles makes a noise of satisfaction before rubbing his face against Derek’s neck.

“I’m going to take these off now,” Derek says, tugging at one of the ropes on Stiles’ back. “I’ll take care of you the whole time, but you let me know if it hurts, okay?”

“’kay,” Stiles murmurs. Derek hugs him a little tighter before releasing him. He heads to his side table, picking up the bottle of water he left there earlier. It’s sitting alongside a few other supplies he pulled together, like a straw, folded towels, and some granola bars. There’s also two packs of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, because he has a feeling Stiles will need some quick sugar.

He unscrews the cap of the water bottle and sticks the straw in the liquid before carrying it back to Stiles. He kneels in front of him again, guiding the straw to Stiles’ lips.

“Small sips,” he cautions as Stiles starts gnawing on the straw and sucking water from it at the same time.

Stiles moans a little bit after he’s taken a couple of sips, and his gaze clears a little bit.

“Refreshing,” he says when he lets the straw fall from his mouth.

Derek sets the half-full bottle off to the side before standing and walking behind Stiles, kneeling down at his feet.

“I’ll work my way backwards, okay?”

There’s a murmur of assent, and Derek begins the process of unbinding Stiles. As he untwists the ropes from Stiles’ back, he rubs at the red rope marks decorating Stiles’ pale skin. Stiles groans like he’s being tortured with pleasure every time he does, so Derek really can’t resist spending more time on the activity than he’d planned.

By the time he reaches the binding around Stiles’ neck, Stiles is almost wet with sweat, and he’s panting just a little bit, little huffed breaths that sometimes break off into moans or groans.

Without a word, Derek reaches around him and snags the water bottle. He offers it to Stiles, who takes a moment to coordinate himself enough to get the straw into his mouth and his throat muscles working. When he does, he drains half of what’s left in the bottle. Derek pulls it away after that, setting it down a foot beyond Stiles’ right hip.

“Do you need something to eat? Want to take a break?”

There’s a pause as Stiles apparently takes the time to consider his answer (or possibly just process being asked a question).

“No…and no.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Stiles says, and he sounds more sure of himself, even if the word itself is a little shaky when it falls out into the open air of the loft.

“Okay. I trust you,” Derek says, and Stiles jerks hard, almost toppling himself over onto the mat. “Stiles?!”

Derek immediately reaches out and steadies Stiles with his hands, gripping his shoulders to keep him upright.

“S’fine. Fine. I’m fine. Just….” Stiles chuffs out something like a laugh. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“Wasn’t expecting what?” Derek asks as he rubs his hands up and down Stiles’ rope-burned back.

Stiles hisses softly before he responds, “You. Trusting me. Bit of a reversal.”

Derek thinks back, and the incident in the Beacon Hills High School pool, as they avoided the Kanima, springs to mind.

_“You don’t trust me. I don’t trust you.”_

Contemplating his answer, Derek continues his massage of Stiles’ back.

“Things have changed,” he says finally.

Humming softly, Stiles shifts slightly before settling back down.

“Yeah,” he says. “They have.”

“I’m going to keep going,” Derek says, and Stiles hums again. Derek shuffles around to Stiles’ front on his knees, and when he sees the contented look in Stiles’ eyes, he can’t help but hook his right hand around the rope ringing Stiles’ neck, gently pulling him forward into a kiss that stays remarkably chaste for all the passion it contains.

“Whee,” Stiles says giddily when they break apart, swaying toward Derek when he draws away. Derek smiles at him, stroking Stiles’ hair back from his forehead. He lets the fingers of his free hand walk and trip over the knots along Stiles’ arms, admiring the play of the rope against Stiles’ skin, the way _he’s_ made Stiles look. It’s a rush, and he doesn’t try to push down the way it makes him feel.

Derek carefully continues pulling the knots apart, rubbing Stiles’ abraded skin and occasionally dropping a kiss on a particularly vibrant rope mark.

When he releases Stiles’ wrists, he immediately shackles them again with his fingers, squeezing the rope-burned flesh until Stiles whimpers. Shifting his grip, he moves Stiles’ arms up until he can press his lips against the thin, vulnerable skin on the inner side of each of Stiles’ wrists. That accomplished, he positions Stiles’ arms on either side of his body, encouraging him to support some of his weight on his hands as his body began to sway softly in multiple directions. Stiles complies easily enough, accepting Derek’s unspoken command to stay where he was without a word.

Finally, after a bit more fiddling, Derek has two long tails of rope and three knots left; the one directly between Stiles’ legs, and the two binding his thighs and calves together on either side.

“You want me to do something about that?” Derek asks, ducking his head in the direction of Stiles’ hard cock, which is flushed so much it’s nearly purple. His balls are drawn up tight against his body, and Derek is frankly shocked he hasn’t come yet. He hadn’t bound Stiles there in any way, although he’d certainly considered it (and had in fact bought a slim, black, silk ribbon to use at some later date).

Stiles, who had been staring at some point around Derek’s forehead, appears a bit dazed at being asked a question. “Huh?”

Derek gestures again, trailing the rope’s scratchy ends over Stiles’ nipples even though he knows it will shred whatever concentration Stiles manages to grasp.

There’s a long period where the only sound in the loft is Derek’s quiet breathing and Stiles’ occasional hitching gasps.

“You,” Stiles gets out on one of those gasps.

“Hmm?” Derek asks, entirely engrossed in the way Stiles’ skin has taken on his lines.

“What you want,” Stiles says, head falling back to bare his neck as Derek nips at his right nipple. “Whatever you want.”

Derek abruptly feels breathless. He grabs the knot between Stiles’ legs with his left hand and presses down lightly on it. He stretches out his other hand and places it outside the spread of Stiles’ thighs, pressing his face into the curve of Stiles’ neck at the same time. He inhales deeply, scenting out the emotions through the chemosignals.

The happiness, arousal and pleasure he’s feeling is augmented by the same emotions in Stiles, along with a peculiar sense of contentment and a tiny bit of some state of being that he can’t even define.

He pulls in another lungful before nuzzling Stiles’ neck, pleased at the slight pink patch he raises on Stiles’ neck with his beard scruff. He pulls back and looks in Stiles’ eyes, which are half-lidded and not really focused at all.

“Okay,” Derek says. He shifts back on his heels, letting off the pressure on the knot he’d been leaning against and letting Stiles’ knees roll outward again. “I’m going to untie these last knots. You’re going to let me stretch out your legs and massage them, and I’m going to let you lie down because after that, if you’re up for it, I’m going to suck your cock until you come down my throat.”

Stiles groans, but Derek isn’t done. He continues with, “I’m then going to take those towels and dry you off, because you’re all hot and sweaty from being so amazing for me. I’m going to carry you to bed and wrap you up in my favorite sweats. You know the ones. They’re soft and wonderful and you keep stealing them? Those ones. It’ll hurt a little bit, having something rubbing against your skin, but it’ll just remind you of how good you feel right now, how good I made you feel. Then I’m going to bury you in blankets and feed you peanut butter cups and water, and we’re going to fall asleep together, all curled up. Sound good?”

A pleasure-filled noise burbles up from Stiles’ throat, but then there’s a discontented huff of “You?”

“What about me?”

Stiles’ head rolls forward, until he’s looking intently down at Derek’s tented sweats. “You,” he whines.

Derek presses his forehead against Stiles’. “You want to watch me come?”

“You…mmm…deserve it.”

It’s easier to hear that now than it used to be, easier to accept that someone believes that he does truly deserve good things after all the pain and sorrow he’s brought others. So Derek smiles, rubs the back of Stiles’ head, and says “Okay.”

He stands and shoves down his sweats and briefs, kicking the puddle of clothing off to the side once he steps out of it. He kneels back down, wanting to be as close to Stiles as he can.

He sets his right hand on his cock, letting his fingers curl around the shaft and the head in just the way he likes. He lets his left hand drift down to his balls, weighing them in his hand before he starts rolling and tugging on them a little. He moves the fingers of his right up and down, occasionally bringing the tip of his thumb up to toy with his leaking slit or flick at his foreskin.

Derek knows it won’t take much. The combination of the pressure of his own hand, the adrenaline flooding his system from tying Stiles up and having it mean only good, pleasurable things; and the sight of Stiles himself, covered in red and pink rope marks, the royal blue ropes Derek had bound him with (that Stiles had _let_ Derek bind him with) still holding his strong legs together would surely be enough just by themselves.

But as Derek starts to really stroke himself, starts to rock his hips into his hand and circle the pads of his fingers over his leaking cockhead, it’s the sight of Stiles’ pink tongue darting out to lick over his swollen, red, kiss-bruised lips that does him in.

He crashes his mouth against Stiles’ once again, devouring the moan Stiles makes even as he smothers his own against Stiles’ tongue. His orgasm hits him hard, making his body jerk and twist even as he spurts come over Stiles’ groin and the rope binding his thighs.

He has to yank his lips away from Stiles’ when he feels his fangs pop over them, breaking the fragile skin. The tiny bit of pain just lends an unexpected sharpness to the sensation of freefalling he’s experiencing as his hips judder forward and into the air.

When he opens his eyes, unsure when he shut them, Derek finds Stiles with his head thrown back again. His chest is covered in a rosy blush that spreads from his sternum down to his groin, the color deeper where the ropes have been. Derek takes a moment to admire the way Stiles’ body is heaving with each gasping breath he takes. He also admires the way the soft twists of the royal blue rope holding Stiles’ legs together are splattered in multiple spots with the translucent white of Derek’s release.

“Please,” Stiles says, and the request would be a whine if Stiles weren’t so breathless.

“So good,” Derek pants, squeezing his balls and stroking his cock through one last aftershock before letting go of himself. He kisses Stiles again (and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the novelty of being able to kiss Stiles whenever he wants, or ever admit to himself that he _wants_ to be able to kiss Stiles whenever he wants), pushing up on his thighs so that he can cup Stiles’ face and pull him up into the passionate press.

“That better?” he asks, once they’ve broken apart and caught their breaths.

Stiles nods, head bobbing lightly on his shoulders.

“Last ones,” Derek says, and teases apart the knot between Stiles’ legs. It comes loose with ease, and Derek finds the sight of his semen being rubbed into the rope’s soft strands almost inspirational. They’ll definitely be doing this again. He can already think of some of the patterns he’s going to weave on Stiles’ body, of the way Stiles will look when he’s so rope-drunk and blissed out he can’t do anything but wait for the next knot.

“‘kay,” Stiles murmurs. He shifts a little, swaying his torso from side to side. He almost overbalances twice, but Derek puts his hand against his shoulder and rights him each time.

The knots around Stiles’ legs take a little more finesse, but then they’re loose as well, the final coils slithering off of Stiles’ body under Derek’s command. He’s a little sad to see them go, but he knows he’ll be able to add to Stiles’ beauty in such a manner again soon.

Derek carefully tips Stiles into the arm he’s braced around the back of his shoulders, letting the younger man’s legs splay out as he shifts Stiles down until he’s flat against the mat. He sets about straightening and massaging Stiles’ legs as he thinks of each step in the aftercare he outlined for Stiles.

“Gonna take care of me?” Stiles murmurs as Derek starts massaging higher and higher up his legs. Derek glances up, catching Stiles’ pleasure-filled, amused, and adoring gaze from where Stiles has tipped his head up to look at him.

“Yeah,” Derek says. “Yeah, I think we’ll both like that.”

Stiles’ head thunks back down against the mat as Derek bends down, curling his lips over his teeth so he can take Stiles into his mouth without hurting him.

He laps at the head of Stiles’ cock once he’s engulfed it in the heat of his mouth, dragging the tip of his tongue over Stiles’ leaking slit. The taste of precome is still the overly salty strangeness it always is, but he can tolerate it because it’s Stiles’. Stiles moans and bucks against him, his fingers winding in Derek’s hair and tugging at him. The movement shoves Stiles’ cock back into Derek’s throat more forcefully than Derek was expecting, and he has to pull back to avoid choking.

Inspired, he pins Stiles’ thighs down, pressing his thumbs into the rope marks as he ducks back down and presses his tongue just under the head of Stiles’ cock. Stiles cries out wordlessly, jerking in Derek’s hold. It’s only when he settles down that Derek starts humming and bobbing his head.

Stiles starts moaning over and over, his cries increasing in pitch and volume. Derek laps at the head of Stiles’ dick as quickly as he can, and that apparently warrants a sharp warning tug on this hair.

Derek shakes Stiles’ hands off and keeps up his efforts, pleased when Stiles’ body locks up beneath him in the rictus of orgasm. Three seconds after that happens, Stiles practically jackknifes off the floor; hands scrabbling at Derek’s back as his cock sends thick spurts of semen across Derek’s tongue and down his throat. He also lets out an extremely filthy, drawn-out moan as he shoves his hips against Derek’s face. It’s not the scream he’s given at their most frantic couplings, nor the bitten-off sighs he’s prone to. Instead, it’s like he’s giving voice to the fact that this is the most luxurious orgasm Derek’s ever been able to give him.

Derek swallows a few times, gently caressing Stiles’ softening member with his tongue. He pulls off when Stiles bats weakly at the top of his head, the signal that he’s getting oversensitive fairly obvious.

Without lifting his head, Derek reaches out and grabs the water bottle, which miraculously hadn’t been knocked over between Stiles’ flailing and his own movements. He takes a large sip, swishing the water around to clear the taste of semen from his mouth before crawling up Stiles’ body. He wraps a hand around the back of Stiles’ head, tilting him up and offering him the straw. Stiles, after a few misguided attempts, chomps down on the straw, gnawing on it as he takes in what’s left in the bottle.

When Derek pulls the bottle away and tosses it off to the side, Stiles gives him a grin that Derek can only describe as “dopey.”

“Heeeey,” Stiles says. He reaches out with his left hand, which lands on Derek’s shoulder before trailing up to the hinge of his jaw. Stiles’ thumb starts tracing along Derek’s cheekbone, dragging against the grain of his stubble before stroking it back down.

“You’re crashing,” Derek says, and Stiles shivers a little as if to prove Derek’s point.

“Don’t feel like ‘m crashin’.”

Derek snorts. “I’d be surprised if you knew your up from your down right now.”

Stiles raises his right hand and waggles his pointer finger at the ceiling.

“Up,” he says smugly.

Derek just shakes his head and snorts again before rising to his feet.

“Smartass,” he says fondly. He trots off to retrieve the towels and sweats he set aside earlier. When he returns to the mat, Stiles is shivering in earnest, wracking his hands up and down his rope-burned arms.

“Easy,” Derek says as he shakes one of the towels out over Stiles’ body. He kneels down again, covering his hand with another towel and using it to scrub away the worst of the sweat Stiles is coated in. “Still cold?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Warmer now.”

“Okay.”

Derek lightly buffs Stiles’ skin, bending down to lick away the occasional drop of drying spunk that didn’t land on the ropes or that leaked out of the side of Derek’s lips to decorate Stiles’ groin. Stiles giggles after he does it the third time.

“What?” Derek asks, scraping his teeth over his tongue to try to get rid of the slick, salty substance.

“Nothing,” Stiles says. His fond smile quickly morphs into a shit-eating grin though, belying his words. “I’ve just never been given a tongue bath before.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Derek says, and he doesn’t mean it to come out sounding fond, but it does, which only makes Stiles’ grin wider.

“Ooo, use big words on me, baby.” Derek flicks Stiles in the forehead, pulling his strength so that he doesn’t hurt him. Much. “Owww! Uncalled for!”

“Perfectly called for. Now do you want me to hand-feed you Reese’s, or not?”

“Want,” Stiles says, reaching up and flexing his hands in the classic “gimme” gesture.

Derek laughs. He passes the towel over his own groin in a cursory cleanup before tossing it aside and getting up. He hunts down his discarded sweats and pulls them on sans underwear. He then takes the pair he’d grabbed for Stiles and drags them up over his slim hips, soothing him when Stiles hisses as the fabric brushes against his inflamed skin.

He then scoops Stiles into his arms, letting the towel that had been draped over Stiles fall to the mat. He kisses Stiles on the forehead and Stiles leans up and pecks him on the nose and it’s so domestic after everything they just did that Derek crushes Stiles against him a little more firmly than he intended. Stiles, luckily, doesn’t complain aside from letting out an exaggerated “Ooof!”

Crossing the room with Stiles in his arms, Derek feels an incredible rush, like he’s summited a mountain or run all night without getting tired.

He situates Stiles under the covers after flipping them back with his foot. He crawls in beside him, snagging the Reese’s package as he goes, and pulls the covers over them both.

“How are you feeling?” Derek asks as he nuzzles the top of Stiles’ head before he starts tearing into the orange candy packaging.

“Awesome,” Stiles replies immediately. Then, after a contemplative pause, he adds “Because of you.”

“I’m glad,” Derek says, divesting a peanut butter cup of its brown wrapper so he can slip it into Stiles’ mouth. Stiles gives a pleased moan as he sucks in both the candy and Derek’s fingers. Derek shudders in pleasure as Stiles laves the pads of his fingers, and his dick twitches valiantly. Stiles, obviously feeling the motion since Derek is pressed against him from sternum to hip, just smirks around his mouthful and sucks harder. “Tease.”

“Maybe,” Stiles says, before he licks his lips and slides a little further under the covers. He yawns loudly, his jaw dropping down before snapping up again. He blinks a few times before rubbing his eyes. “Man, I didn’t think I’d be this tired. I didn’t even really do anything.”

“No,” Derek denies. “You did a lot more than you think. And you were good, Stiles. So good.”

Stiles preens before yawning again. “Hey, Derek?”

“Yeah?” Derek sets the second peanut butter cup back on the nightstand before sliding down next to Stiles, pulling the younger man over until his head is resting against Derek’s chest.

“It’s later.”

It takes Derek a moment to parse out what Stiles is talking about (a skill he’d had to develop quickly and acutely), but eventually he trips on the memory of earlier in the evening, of asking Stiles if he wanted to try again and then making a note out loud to have Stiles answer him when he was somewhat more coherent.

Derek smiles. “So it is. Say we can do this again, Stiles. Say you’ll let me string you up and make you the most gorgeous piece of art I’ve ever touched. Say you’ll let yourself slip into that perfect space where all you have to do is let me twist you and tie you and keep you for myself. Say yes.”

Stiles bumps the top of his head into Derek’s chin before he lazily tips his head up and back so he can look at Derek with clear, beautiful eyes.

“Yes.”

 


End file.
